Poem -

The Ghost of Marion Lear

The Ghost of Marion Lear

'Twas the year of our Lord, 1834, a man rode into Tucker's Sound,
with fiery black eyes, he was one despised, folks ran when he came 'round.
Now, it was said old Randy Red wanted Marion for his wife,
but Miss Lear held another dear–she longed for a better life.

Sheriff seen him comin'–took off a' runnin'–heading for the square.
Randy hitched Blue, then stared into the eyes of a lawman standin' there.
“Now, I don't want no trouble, Red, so I'll jest take that piece ya' got.”
But, Randy Red, bent on bloodshed—felled the Sheriff with a single shot.

With the lawman dead, old Randy Red set out for the Shady Lady Saloon,
where Mandy Chan–who was Mandarin–was now a' singin' a mournful tune.
He burst through the door, spit on the floor–took a seat down at the bar.
It got real quiet–townsfolk sensed a riot–Randy Red exposed a jagged scar.

"Y'all see this here? Well, lissen up; I ain't a man of many words.
Thet young Lear gal, and her lover pal, stuck me an' left me for the birds.
In the desert where–out yonder, there–my body might not be found.
They bushwhacked me, but Blue, ya' see, came a' runnin' to stomp 'em down.

I know they's here," Randy Red drew near, "I'm ornery, but I shore ain't dumb.
If y'all jest tell me where they's at, I'll go back where I come from."

Folks sat in silence in staunch defiance of Randy's Red's request.
Marion's new beau, as gunslingers go, wasn't one with whom they'd mess.

No one spoke ill, nor guts would spill, of Marion's lover, Joe Macbeth.
Town's folk knew–Randy Red did too–doin' so might mean their death.
If they gave him up, said the town's gossip, it'd surely spell their doom.
Joe caught wind–a note he'd send–for Randy to meet him at high noon.

The stage was set, some wages bet, as the two men met, face to face.
Silence was thick, nails chewed to the quick; as a hush fell 'bout the place.
Tumbleweed gleamed, the hot sun beamed, as all gathered 'round the show.
Desert winds blew, dust engulfed the two–how it'd end, no one could know.

The die was cast, folks gathered fast, as they squared off in the street.
Little Jimmy Hall couldn't see at all so he grabbed a front row seat.
The sun beat down on arid ground–desert winds whistled and howled.
Their guns they drew, breath was held as two vanished in a smoky cloud.

Loud gunfire spelled a funeral pyre fer one a' them men, fer sure.
Once the dust cleared, to all it appeared, Randy was the one who'd endured.
Joe lay sprawled; young Marion bawled o'er her handsome gunslinger's fate.
She ran to his side, knelt beside him, and cried, for she had come too late.

Randy sneered, a few admirers cheered, as the gambler holstered his gun;
he knelt by the gal in high chaparral–she'd be his now; the deed was done.
To everyone's surprise–right between his black eyes–Randy took a slug of his own.
Marion just glared, tossed a derringer where Randy's body lay dead in the sun.

She'd never recover, nor love another, and she remained a spinster for life.
Though many would try, she'd only cry, for she'd never be Joe's darlin' wife.
Ghosts of Tucker's Sound, O'...they're still around, if you listen closely you'll hear,
winds carryin' cryin'–as a gal's love lay dyin'–of a ghost named Marion Lear.


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Dean Kuch

Thank you very much, John.
I'm so glad you enjoyed it.
Pleasant screams, heh-heh...
~Dean ~đź’€~

Dean Kuch

You're a man of very few words, Greg.
But I kind'a like the word you used.
Thanks so much for readin'.
~Dean ;)

Cherie Leigh

Hi Dean you are great at narratives....and I like the old ghost tales....I feel sorry for Marion Lear....very unfair....Randy was bad news...and I feel sorry for her that she lost her love, Joe....and never married...sad....Great tale.  xo ;)